He Who Wins Shall Be the Conqueror

The laurels are not mine: there shall be no triumph, no confetti, no preseerves... Despite my sterlingest efforts (4100 words! In three hours! In a sixteenth century castle!), I am defeated. Oi, moi, woe is me, alack comma alas...
desperance, sir, I bow beneath your chariot wheels. Name your cake!

In other news, at least the eternal emo book is finished. Yay. Now I can think about something else, though no doubt it will now need re-writing. The sun is shining, we are surrounded by early modern splendour and I am on holiday with only one skirt. (Long velevet and lace and so on burgundy.) The marquis scents castles ahead and is growing restive... I must away. Be good out there.

Dartmoor

We are finally on Dartmoor, at the Rock Inn, Haytor, indeed. The marquis has tracked down five castles to their lairs and says:
Berkeley, Gloucs 'rather entertaining; strange connectivity, multi-layered squiggle, nice remains of a shell keep.
Thornbury, Gloucs 'Very nice -- scrambly bits and bits you can stay in all in one castle.' (He also liked the wine list and the food -- anef take note).
Taunton -- 'Much played with and being messed about with more even as we speak [type, typist]' Our views on the town: 'T*unton: a bit cr*p, really'
Tiverton 'closed, bah humbug'. Looks to have a good square tower.
Bickleigh 'not really a castle at all'.

THe non-castle experience was the National Arboretum at Westonbirt. I have now seen a 2000 year old lime coppice, which looks like a copse and it all one tree. And many beautiful maples. And birches and beeches and lots and lots of extremely happy dogs.

I have not yet looked at the book. I don't want to confront rewrites at once. Tomorrow, she said, firmly.